I've never gotten to do romantic comedy like most of the girls.

Hear the words of Jessica Biel, who once said: “I’ve never gotten to do romantic comedy like most of the girls. Maybe because I’m fit, people assume that I’m not funny?” In these words lies not only her personal lament, but the echo of a greater truth—the world is too quick to bind people with chains of expectation, to judge them by the outer shell rather than the spirit within. She reveals the sorrow of being misunderstood, not because of lack of talent, but because of the narrow gaze of others who decide who we are before we have spoken.

The romantic comedy, that light and joyful form of storytelling, has long been a stage for actresses to reveal warmth, humor, and humanity. To be denied such roles, not by chance but by perception—that one is too strong, too fit, too sculpted for laughter—is to be told that one’s essence does not belong where gentleness and humor thrive. It is the folly of a culture that divides women into categories: the beautiful, the funny, the strong, the tender. Yet human beings are not so easily divided, and Biel’s frustration arises from this injustice—that a person may be all these things, yet still be denied the chance to show them.

This injustice has echoed through history. Consider the fate of Katharine Hepburn, who was first dismissed as too sharp, too independent, too masculine to embody feminine charm. Yet, through persistence, she redefined what a leading lady could be—combining wit, strength, and beauty in equal measure. Or reflect upon Lucille Ball, whose striking looks made some doubt her ability to bring laughter, yet she shattered expectations and became one of the greatest comedic actresses of all time. These women, like Biel, faced the blindness of those who could not imagine that strength and humor, beauty and levity, might live together in harmony.

The meaning of Biel’s words is not bitterness, but revelation: that we must be wary of assumptions. To call someone fit and therefore unfit for humor is to confuse the vessel for the soul. Humor is not a muscle or a curve, but a spark of spirit, a way of seeing the world that transcends the body. To laugh, to make others laugh, is one of the highest arts of humanity. To deny this possibility because of appearance is to silence voices that might otherwise bring joy to many.

And yet, there is a hidden nobility in her lament. For to be denied one path does not mean the end of one’s journey. The actress, the artist, the human soul—all must sometimes wrestle with the narrow roles the world assigns. In this wrestling, they may find new strength, new ways of breaking through. Hepburn, Ball, and many others showed that perseverance, coupled with authenticity, can overturn even the harshest assumptions. So too must Biel, and so too must we all, when others mistake the shell for the essence.

The lesson is this: never allow yourself to be defined by the expectations of others. Do not let them decide if you are humorous, or tender, or strong. Live in such a way that you reveal the fullness of who you are. Seek opportunities, yes, but also create them. When the world does not see you as you are, show them again and again until the illusion falls away. In time, even the narrowest eyes must widen.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, remember Jessica Biel’s lament, and turn it into your strength. Do not shrink when people misjudge you. Do not despair when you are placed in a box. Know that you are more than what they imagine, and that your spirit contains contradictions too vast for categories. Break the chains of perception, and live fully in all your dimensions.

Thus Biel’s words, though born of frustration, shine with enduring counsel: appearances are not destiny, and assumptions are not truth. The world may think beauty cannot be funny, or strength cannot be tender—but time and courage will prove otherwise.